


Rat and Boots: An X-Files Fairy Tale

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 11:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Alex makes a few deals.





	Rat and Boots: An X-Files Fairy Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Rat 'n Boots, An X-Files Fairy Tale by Te

Rat 'n Boots, An X-Files Fairy Tale  
by Te  
11/98  
Disclaimers: No one you recognize belongs to me.  
Spoilers: Eep... Tiny ones for The End, the movie, and maybe the season premiere.  
Summary: Alex makes a few deals.  
Ratings Note: R for language, implied m/m interaction, violence, general wrongness.  
Author's Note: A direct result of a certain thread on Nick-Fixx.   
Acknowledgments: To Woodinat for finding me a copy of "Puss 'n Boots" to massacre, to Rae for fine audiencing, to Sister Blue because she's peachy keen and the best kind of mean, and to Rye for fine beta in the face of life's absurdities. 

* * *

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Rat 'n Boots, An X-Files Fairy Tale  
by Te  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once upon a time, in a land not unlike Washington D.C., there came a time of great upheaval in the halls of power. A time of deaths and burnings. A time of emotional suffering. A time of stress headaches too powerful for mere Excedrin of the Exxxtra Strength to handle.

When all was said and done, the great and powerful were left with chaos where they needed order. This was a dangerous thing, indeed, and they strove and struggled to set things right again.

"How could it be done?" they cried.

And then, from the shadows came a voice of smoke and dangerously gigglesome accent. 

"We shall bestow gifts, my friends, and all shall be well again." 

No one spoke to disagree.

To Agents Spender and Fowley were given the X-Files, in the hopes that two people so flush with the rarefied power of Annoyance would be able to simply browbeat and mince the troublesome cases into proper silence.

To Assistant Director Kersh was given the power of Superiority over Agents Mulder and Scully, in the hopes that the man would be too busy restraining his impulse to kill to think about that icksome little affirmative action suit.

But Agent Mulder was not forgotten. Nay, he received a gift of his very own...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mulder didn't think he would ever be free of the pungent scent of fertilizer. 

From his darkly-spiked hair to his distressingly caked Magli's he exuded the wholesomely rich bouquet of the nation's farmland. While this had caused the luscious Agent Barkin --formerly of Idaho -- to spend quite a bit of time sniffing him nostalgically, the cons still outweighed the pros.

He missed the days when his clothes were more concretely ruined. Now there was neither fascinating ooze in his pockets nor acid burns on his hem. 

Now there was only the disturbing low-grade urge to eat fresh vegetables and vote Republican.

His heart was weary, and now it was only Langly's occasional forwards of creative uses for farm animals that made him smile in the dusty gloom of his apartment. Mulder sighed piteously and hoped for a change.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door and the thump thump thump of fleeing footsteps, and he felt a vicious stab of hope. 

Could it be? Had a change finally come?

But Mulder stifled the wish before dragging himself to answer. 

And found Alex Krycek at his door, wearing nothing but a merry grin and a bright pink bow ribbon. Around his neck. 

Mulder blinked once, slowly, and then waved the other man inside with his gun, backed him against the now closed door, and settled the barrel against one pale temple.

"Um..."

Mulder didn't answer.

"Jeez, Mulder! Is this any way to accept a gift?"

"What the hell are you talking about, Krycek?"

"A gift. I'm your gift."

Mulder blinked again, reassured himself that his grip on the SIG was firm. He tried very hard not to think about how Alex's deep sigh would sound if the other man was naked and far too close to Mulder in other circumstances. 

"You know, Spender and Fowley got the X-Files, Kersh got you, and..."

"I get you."

Alex smiled brilliantly and appeared to consider nodding as well, but the gun seemed to make him decide not to do so. 

"That's right, Mulder. I'm all yours."

"All mine."

"Yep."

Mulder pressed the gun a little harder against Alex's forehead and felt his lips pull back into something like a smile for the first time in... 

Much too long. It got even wider when he caught the scent of fear-sweat rising high from the other man. 

"Hey, hey there.... You're not planning to *kill* me, are you?"

Mulder cocked his head, and tried to get the smile just a teeny bit wider. "Seems like a good idea to *me*, Krycek."

"Well, damn. If this is how you treat *all* your presents it's no *wonder* your Christmases were so lousy."

"What was that?"

"Nothing, nothing, it's not really important. Listen, if you think a naked me on your doorstep is somehow worse--"

"On the contrary, Krycek. A naked you on my doorstep is the first good thing that's happened to me all week." 

Mulder began to run the barrel in tight little circles, wondering just which parts of the brain he'd be taking out when he pulled the trigger. He hoped for the language centers.

"-- worse than some moldering piles of genetic mutants waiting to get messy and the opportunity to be *your* direct supervisor, then you've got another think coming, Mulder."

"Do I, now?" Mulder moved a little closer and watched with fascination as one slick droplet of sweat slid to the end of Alex's snub nose. He resisted the urge to lick it off. 

"Yes you *do*. Listen, I can get you what you want, Mulder. Fortune, power, maybe even a little truth. OK, so I can't make too many promises about that last, but--"

Mulder jabbed the barrel harder, pretending he could hear the light thud of metal impacting with cranium. "Shut up, you lying sonofabitch. If you're my "gift," then just where the fuck did they get you from, hunh? Last time I checked it took a little more than a trip to the mall to pick up your own handy dandy traitorous, back-stabbing prick--"

"I bet you *never* checked Housewares--"

A punch to the gut shut him up neatly. "I asked you a question, Krycek. Where did they get you from?" Mulder was impressed with the coolly dangerous quality of his own voice, and needed look no further than the bright swipe of pink over Alex's lip to tell him the other man was, too. 

Alex sighed wistfully. "Walter's basement, but really that's not at all important right now..."

A dark swirl of images of just what Alex might have been doing in Walter's basement, of what might have been done *to* him, threatened to weaken Mulder's resolve. Not to mention his knees. He shook himself out of it and tried to focus on the other man's words.

"... and a pair of boots then I promise you won't be sorry. If you still are, then you can do anything you want with me."

"In case you haven't noticed--"

But that was all he had time to say before Alex bit his wrist hard enough to make him drop the gun, headbutted him and somehow managed to both turn him around and twist both his arms behind his back. The next thing Mulder was fully aware of was the hot press of lean, obviously naked muscle against his spine and a throaty purr at his ear.

"Anything you want, Mulder."

"What do *you* want, asshole?"

Soft lips seemed to kiss the air beside his face. "What I want? Well, now... why don't we worry about that in, say, a month?" Cheerful laugh. "For now, grant me my life, my freedom, and a nice pair of boots -- oh, and some clothes would be nice --and when I return, we can... re-negotiate. What do you say?"

The absurdity of the request nearly sent Mulder off that edge whose crags and slips had become all too familiar to him over the years, but he caught hold of himself internally and shook until he was back on something like a safe track. 

"Well, OK, Krycek, but if I'm not happy a month from now your ass is mine."

"Of course, Mulder, of course." 

Without another word he was free, and by the time he managed to correct his balance and check his shoulders for soundness, he could hear Alex rummaging through his bedroom. Mulder walked to the kitchen for a beer, then backtracked in search of something a little stronger. 

It took only three shots of tequila for Alex to return to him, having borrowed a tee shirt, his brand new leather jacket, a pair of jeans, and his favorite pair of motorcycle boots, scuffed and battered into perfect leather comfort and steel-toed bad-assed-ness. He was perversely glad Brenda had never come back for them, despite having hoped Alex would settle for one of the pairs of hiking boots. 

Black leather had always suited the other man just fine on any number of levels. 

Alex handed him the neatly folded ribbon...

"One month."

... and then was out the door and away. Mulder took another shot and then set to burning all of his calendars. Even the Far Side ones. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Alex breathed deep and smiled. Even in the sooty little heart of Milwaukee, Wisconsin's basic dairy goodness was pretty much inescapable. Although he was on a schedule, he hadn't been able to resist egging some local teenagers out in the sticks into some cattle mutilations in return for several cases of Beast. 

There were few things he loved more than the idea of corrupting America's youth, and one of them was the idea of Mulder chafing at the bit to come investigate. 

For now, though, he was on the hunt. And there were simply no better grounds for tonight's chosen prey than right here. 

He looked up into the night sky and thought of Bikkens.

Maynard Bikkens had been in his "class" at the other Academy he'd attended. The man had taught him more about estimating the placement of human organs than any number of field trips and experiments had, and gave one hell of a blow job, besides. In return, he had looked the other way when Maynard slipped the leash.

The man had been looney tunes, and their "professors" had planned to graduate him just a wee bit early... but loyalty had been loyalty in those days, and Alex had taken his demerits like a man. Damned if those riding crops hadn't left some nasty scars, though. 

As far as he could tell, Maynard had lived the life he'd wanted in the intervening years, if the disappearances of a large number of dark-haired rentboys with cute little ears was any indication. 

Alex was more than vain enough to think it was. He knocked at the door of Maynard's neat little house and was immediately greeted by the smell of something not *quite* like frying pork chops and a pale little man with stylishly thin gold glasses. 

"Alex?"

"How's tricks, killer?"

"What do you mean?" 

The arm that ended with a hand carefully hidden behind one conservatively khaki-ed thigh twitched slightly, and Alex knew that whatever he'd end up doing tonight would most probably have happened anyway, sooner or later. The man was definitely losing it. Well, more so.

"Hey, hey, Maynard! Take it easy. We know each other, right?"

"Why are you here?"

Just once, he'd like for someone to be *happy* he dropped by for a visit. Alex let his lashes flutter half-closed, parted his lips and rubbed his crotch. "I missed you..." 

His cock had yet to fail him in a situation where weapons were involved, and this was no exception. Maynard licked his lips once and again, and his hand came into clear view. A miniature machete, most probably custom made, hung loosely by his thigh.

"May I... come in?"

"Alex... Alex. Yeah, come in."

Dazed and confused. Alex believed he could come to love Wisconsin. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The precinct was slow and quiet at this time of night. Maynard's neighborhood may have been rather seedy, but crime hadn't quite settled in.

Well, mundane crime.

Alex dumped the unconscious Maynard on the floor in front of the desk sergeant, and slipped into angry-yet-fiercely-proud-little-agent mode -- Mulder's wallet had provided more than enough cash for a few changes of clothing. 

"What the fuck is this supposed to be?"

"Sergeant Duffy, this little punk ass is Maynard Charles Bikkens. Remember that string of hustler disappearances?"

Duffy's eyes narrowed in a speculative gleam, and Alex felt a small moment of camaraderie. Perhaps, in another time, this man might've made a good operative. 

"You saying this skuzz is responsible?"

"You might want to check his freezer."

"Ah, *fuck*. Another one. How the hell did *you* get ahold to him, Mister..."

"Gabson. *Agent* Gabson, FBI." He flashed his "badge" with that brand of high-handed speed and efficiency that had served him so well in his years of pretense. "My partner worked up the profile. Took one helluva knife wound. He's getting patched up."

"We didn't receive any word--"

"Yeah, well, *you* wouldn't." Alex let the anger set in before continuing. It would be useful, given proper focus. "My partner and I broke a few of the rules, and now we're stuck on shit detail. But Mu-- my partner knew this guy would just keep on killing, so..."

"So he worked on the profile in his off time." Duffy nodded approvingly, and Alex smiled inside and began to ease toward the door in an obvious manner.

"Hey, where are you headed?"

"Can't have my name on this, man. Bikkens should be in a talkative mood once he wakes up." Alex had, of course, shot him full of pentothal. "We're supposed to be in Nebraska. Mulder'll have my head if anyone-- *Shit*."

Duffy nodded sagely. "Don't worry, Gabson. We'll keep your names out of it. I know from brass, I'll tell you that much."

Alex plastered on a look of gratitude, and walked out fast. Mulder's name would reach the right places within hours. On to task two. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mulder sat in the rich brown leather of his chair and tried very, very hard not to tear out AD Kersh's throat with his teeth.

"For the last time, Kersh, I have no idea what you're talking about!"

He noted with some measure of exhausted joy that Scully was looking equally miffed. Maybe if he mentioned how cute she looked that way *she'd* tear Kersh's throat out for him. They shared a look, and Scully raised an eyebrow at him. Or maybe not.

"Do you mean to tell me that the name Maynard Charles Bikkens means nothing to you?"

Kersh had that ice cold DC purr down to a science; Mulder would give him that much. 

"Of course it means something to me. That bastard's been all over the news for the past week, but I had *nothing* to do with it."

"Really, Agent Mulder."

"Really. Sir."

Kersh just looked at him for a long moment, ignoring his increasingly irate partner. 

"If you really think I spend my free time profiling serial killers, then maybe you should just promote me, Kersh."

"Or maybe I should just put you two back to work."

Kersh slapped a file on the desk and smiled.

"Enjoy Montana."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Alex looked out the window from his seat at the exquisitely carved drawing room table and sighed to himself. The rolling green hills of England had never looked quite so in need of carpet bombing. 

Across from him sat Mrs. Well-Groomed-No-Names-Please-We-Forgot-Them-Years-Ago-Anyway. Widow's black suited her shriveling features beautifully, in that way black lace and an icy demeanor always could.

"I was his protege, madam. I need those files to carry on your husband's work."

"My husband's *work* did nothing but get him killed in some seedy little alleyway in the States, Mr. Krycek."

"On the contrary, madam. Your husband's work got you out of those mills in Derry before your lungs could collapse from industrial poisons."

A long silence and then the doors opened to reveal several large men in that sort of ill mood that meant nothing but a trip to yet another doctor too stripped of his credentials to say anything about a man with mysterious injuries.

"Do not presume you know anything about me, Mr. Krycek."

"Of course, madam. I apologize."

"Do you? You're very sweet." 

Her voice never left the range of carefully crafted aristocracy, and Alex remained still.

"You want those files.... There are things I want as well, Mr. Krycek."

"I'm listening."

"We both know who is responsible for my husband's demise. I would have his head. Rather dramatic, I know, but I am an old woman. I fear my taste for subtlety has drifted away on the same wind as my taste for... bangers and mash. You will get me what I want, and then you will receive certain diskettes."

"Your wish is my command, madam."

"Yes. Of course it is."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The halls of the mighty buzzed and hummed with word of the powers of Mulder the Spooky. All over the country, in towns great and small, serial killers were turning up, along with any number of incriminating trophies.

No one but Mulder could have done such a thing, it was said, and yet there was never any sign of his presence beyond names whispered on the lips of the awed and grateful.

Alex, you see, often grew bored with the search for his former patron's killer, and he had any number of exes he wished to be rid of.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Week three and Mulder had had *no* success in the attempt not to track the time Alex had been away, ashes of Wiener Dog Art be damned. Although he had to admit the impatient track of days until he got his hands on the bastard again provided a measure of sanity. 

While he was still traipsing from farm to farm in search of home grown terrorists, the inevitable returns to Washington had grown surreal. 

Claps on the back. Secretive smiles from behind cubicle walls, and, the worst --

"Give 'em hell, Spooky."

Thrill killers, mass murderers, odd little psychos with mother fixations... They were showing up by the blood-slick handful in precincts and branch offices all over the country. 

And his name was all over the lot of them, despite the fact that the closest he'd come to profiling in recent memory was the attempt to understand why Susie-the-delivery-girl always did a little cha-cha-cha upon leaving her vehicle.

Yet there were other whispers as well. A dark-haired, fresh faced man who claimed to be his partner.

If Alex got him sent back to Violent Crimes he'd throttle him with the damned bow ribbon, no matter *how* much fun it was to jerk off with the thing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Canada and snow turned blinding in the winter sun. 

Again. 

Alex couldn't decide whether it was a sign of senility or brilliance that the old man had chosen to hide precisely where he'd hidden the *last* time. No matter, though. He had a job to do.

He kicked in the door and laid down a blanket of machine gun fire. There were, of course, no bodies as an end result, but the move had bought him time to enter the little cabin safely. 

"Come out, come out wherever you are..."

"Alex. How pleasant to see you again."

The old man revealed himself with a drag on a cigarette. He was lounged casually in the far corner, and the wood just to the left of his head had been splintered by at least one bullet. Alex shuddered minutely. The woman may not have *specified* that the head was to be undamaged, but it was better to assume some things. 

"Thanks, you don't look so bad yourself, actually. Those sweaters really work for you."

"Thank *you*. Now, tell me. You're not *really* going to try to kill me, are you?"

"Well, that was the plan."

"You can't kill me, little man. You've tried before."

"I was taught to try until you succeed."

"Hence this latest attempt to get in Mulder's pants. Honestly, we let you out of that assignment *ages* ago, Alex."

"I'm a thorough man."

"I reiterate, you can't kill me."

"Please do explain. I should let you know that the guards are staining the snow about three miles to the east."

"I figured as much. Incompetents."

"Hard to get good help these days."

"All too true. Still though, Alex, you can't kill me."

"I'm listening."

"I've always considered myself to be a fair man. There were some... experiments... that I volunteered for, myself. When I saw just how well the results came out, I made a point of... eliminating all traces of the project from the record."

"Which would explain the lack of effect all those bullets I've pumped into you over the years."

The old man smiled. "Indeed."

"Maybe it just wasn't *enough* bullets."

"Perhaps, perhaps..."

The old man shifted into the vaguely European countenance of those beings Alex had come to think of as Real Big Pains In the Ass. He immediately dropped his gun to reach for the plam, but the next thing he was aware of was the sickening freedom of his feet from the hardwood floor and an iron hand around his throat.

"Like I said, you can't kill me."

"I..." He coughed helplessly. "I beg to differ."

RBPITA cocked his head in question. "Is that so?"

"That's so."

A smile. "Explain your reasoning." The hand relaxed its grip a fraction. 

"Well, sure you can shift form, and take bullets, and bleed red -- neat trick, by the way -- but really, how many forms can you take? At best, you're just a half-breed."

"I can take any form I wish, boy."

"Oh, really? Then how about the form of Jean-Pierre Chan?"

RBPITA seemed deep in thought for a moment, and then flowed with liquid ease into the muscular, darkly handsome form of Mr. Chan. Alex smiled evilly. 

"As you can see, I can do--"

But that was all the man had time to say before immediately dropping dead of mysterious causes. Alex had figured out after the second Scully had bit the big one that relatives of the people he'd slept with tended to do that. 

Charles *still* wouldn't return his calls, and it was really about time that the odd little quirk of his love life could prove itself useful. 

And, while Denese...

//That's Deneeeeeze, Alex. Ma mere is French.//

... Chan may still have been alive somewhere, making the lives of men and women alike absolute hell; she'd be doing it with one less brother in the world. Alex looked down at the slow shift of flesh back into grey crepe and surprise. Well, one less brilliantly detailed replica of a brother, at least. 

Alex planted the heel of Mulder's boot firmly on the old man's chest, removed the machete he'd liberated from Maynard's hands, and set to work, whistling happily all the while. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You've done well, Mr. Krycek." Black silk today, and Alex found he missed the lace. She slid a small business envelope across the table, handing off the large specimen bottle to one of her flunkies. Presumably for permanent storage. "Inside that envelope you will find a key. The lock is on the drawer of the desk of the office in which you first met my late husband. Am I understood?"

"Yes, madam."

"Excellent. You are dismissed."

Alex walked to the door with as much calm as he could muster.

"Oh, and Mr. Krycek?"

"Yes, madam?"

"Stay in touch."

He turned, gave her his best smile and bow. "With pleasure, madam."

The titter she gave made his balls try to crawl back into his body, but his smile remained even. 

Though he did find himself back at the airport a full half hour earlier than he'd calculated. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Day thirty-one and Mulder was pacing his apartment in a mixture of anger and anticipation. The cases Kersh was handing him had begun to smack vaguely of the paranormal, though the assignments themselves remained innocuous. His star appeared to be on the rise again. 

The official X-Files, despite the ugly rumors that had led to Diana's disappearance with a metaphorical price on her head, remained in Spender's hands. He'd already lost one new partner, and the man was clearly fraying around the edges without Diana's influence. 

Scully had taken to wearing far less fashionable shoes. Paranormal edges or no, she'd confided that she'd grown sick of ammonium nitrate burns on her best heels. 

And Alex was going to be late within the next fifteen minutes.

Click of a safety behind his ear.

Or not. 

"Happy month-day, Mulder."

There was a smile in the purr. "I'm not happy, Alex."

"What? After all I -- that is to say, after all that's happened this month?"

"I *still* don't have the X-Files."

"Complain, complain, complain. Have a seat, I think--"

He was cut off by the chirrup of Mulder's cell phone. 

"Mind if I get that?"

"Not at all, Mulder. Not at all."

Yet another smile from just behind him, too awkwardly placed to--

"Mulder."

"Agent Mulder. This is Assistant Director Skinner calling."

"Sir? What's up?"

"Tomorrow morning you'll receive an interoffice memo informing you that, effective immediately, you and Scully are back in the X-Files division."

"How--"

"Apparently certain information was received that suggests your presence in the division is... required. I just thought I'd let you know that I'll be your supervisor again. And I expect you in my office at 8:30 sharp. You've got some explanations to make, Mulder."

"But I--" He cut himself off at the sound of Alex beginning to snigger. "What about Spender?"

"Oh, he's all yours, Mulder."

"Ah, fuck."

"Live with it."

Skinner hung up with a click and Mulder shut the phone off, turning to Alex just in time to see him eyeing it wistfully. Mulder made a note to check out Walter's basement at his earliest possible convenience. 

"Alex--"

"Feeling happy, yet?"

Mulder tried very, very hard to remember the precise arrangements of the deal he'd made with the other man a month before. 

"Well, I'm still stuck with Spender..."

Alex threw up his hands --

"Hey, wait, where did that come from?"

"Long story."

\-- and settled on the couch with a sigh. 

"Look, Mulder, I really did try to do something about lil' Jeffy, but his father cleaned him up just a little too neatly. Think of it this way, he *is* his father's son. Get 'im on a leash and he just might prove useful."

"Useful."

Alex smiled and nodded, and Mulder couldn't help but return a grin. 

"OK, OK, so I'm *getting* happy."

"Getting happy. What does it *take* with you, anyway?"

Mulder pulled the somewhat frayed and faded ribbon from his pocket.

"Oh, I dunno, Alex.... But I do have a few ideas."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

And all in the land rejoiced at the muffled thumps and whimpers emanating from Apartment the Forty Second, and everyone lived happily ever after. 

Except for the dead ones.

The End.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


End file.
